


the boy who loves you keeps weakening (a death bed scene)

by paxamdays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drarry, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Like, M/M, Metaphors, Relationship Problems, Too Many Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxamdays/pseuds/paxamdays
Summary: He doesn’t want it to be done with; he wants the cracked lips and hungry eyes on his body all the time. He wants him, this thing of beauty, to read and laugh and have long conversations in places where the light reaches, in the welcoming openness of the day. He wants, he wants, he wants.Or, Harry and Draco's relationship, through the eyes of Draco.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 29





	the boy who loves you keeps weakening (a death bed scene)

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! how are you!! happy (not quite, but its in five hours so i might as well say it anyway) new year!!  
> i hope 2021 treats you better than this shit heap of a year has.
> 
> title is taken from my favourite poem ever (a primer for for the small weird loves by richard siken). this story takes place some time in their sixth year. as well as this, the whole internalised homophobia thing isn't the main driving force in this story, its more one sided on draco's side, just for clarification.

In his dreams, Draco has died nearly a thousand times.

He almost debates waking up — it’s surprising that he has enough awareness to even consider it — but his consciousness wins over, and soon he’s alive again, shirtless and bundled up in sweat soaked sheets.

He wakes up alone.

It’s a half truth; of course, his dorm mates are there, no more than a few metres away from him. But the bed is empty; he feels he doesn’t have enough presence to make it full again.

He wakes up alone, and thinks about Wednesday, wishing it would come back to him.

*

_“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get your ass kicked for skipping class?”_

_“I could ask you the same thing, Chosen One.”_

_Harry laughs; it’s loud, raw, genuine. Like he has nothing to fear, and nothing to lose._

_“You’re an idiot, Draco.”_

_“So we’ve reached a first name basis now?”_

_It’s a legitimate, albeit stupid question. After all, Harry’s hands and knees are on either side of Draco’s body, pushing hard into the mattress. He smiles, leans forward a little bit, and kisses him on the cheek. Draco could die, but chooses not to._

_“I would hope so”, he says. “Cos there isn’t really any other way to explain this.”_

_He laughs again, and Draco’s lips curve slightly upwards as Harry’s lips press onto his._

_*_

But Wednesday only comes back in memories, in yellow sunlight streaming through half-open shutters. Wednesday was gone, and Harry, he supposes, went with it.

It’s Sunday now. He has no classes, so he needs to find something to occupy his time. It could be _him_ , but Harry doesn’t want it to be.

The Chosen One in question is in the Gryffindor common room. Draco knows it’s a bad idea to be here — like a rabbit willingly going into a foxhole — but lately, logic seems to have been leaving him in favour for the great _something,_ of feelings he can touch, of afternoons spent laying in the sunlit rooms. He knows he shouldn’t be on what might as well be enemy grounds, yet something is holding him close to here, and he doesn’t think he can stop until he gets it.

Harry is all long limbs and flying hands that cut through the air, bright and animated expressions and eyes that burn the brightest green. He’s smiling while he tells his story, and his friends indulge in this, soaking him in like it’s a privilege they possess without knowing it.

Dean notices him first, followed by the redheaded one — Ron, although god knows there’s too many of them in this house to keep track. They both stare at him, blinking, and Draco wishes he was back in a dream dying again, but unfortunately he does not always get what he wants and has to endure this instead.

“Oh”, Dean says, uncertain. “Hello.”

“Malfoy? What the _hell_ is he doing in here?” Ron snaps; it’s not really a question, more like an accusation. Draco doesn’t answer him, doesn’t know how to because he didn’t think this far ahead. He’s not really sure what he was expecting either; it’s not like he was going to be able to walk into this common room without dozens of bloodthirsty Gryffindors wanting to murder him.

Soon, everyone has turned to the door, to _him,_ and are all staring. It feels like there’s more of them than what there actually is, and he knows he shouldn’t allow his mind to play tricks on them, but the flames from the fireplace casts heavy shadows on the wall, so tall it feels like they could all swallow him whole.

“How did you get in here?” Hermione asks. She, like Dean, has some sense of level-headedness, although her voice is tight and there’s a poisonous subtly to it.

_Harry gave me the password._

“The door was open”, he says quietly. “I just— I’m sorry, I just needed to—“

But his words fail him and now they’re all closing in, hideous monsters ready to tear his body apart until nothing remains.

“Your textbook, I totally forgot.” Harry’s coming towards him, a book clutched in his hand. Draco could cry, honest to fucking god, because there he is; making urgent yet careful strides, sleeves rolled up, face flushed. The light from the fireplace makes him look less human, soft and fuzzy around the edges, but it doesn’t terrify Draco at all. He’s almost like a knight from a children’s story his mother used to read to him when he was still small, saving him from the mess he’s put himself in. “I took the notes and everything, just slipped my mind to give it back.”

The textbook is suddenly in front of him, and Draco takes it without looking at it, only at him. Harry’s eyes are apologetic, regretful even, and he mouths a single word without letting anything really leave his mouth; _sorry._

Draco says nothing and leaves.

(Later, when he had made it back to his own dormitory, he noticed that the book was titled _Encyclopaedia of Toadstools_ ; he didn’t take herbology. He slept with it that night, held tightly against his chest).

*

“You shouldn’t have done that, Draco.”

The room is spinning, keeps accelerating faster and faster until it feels like he’s going to collapse. He’s leaning against a broken sink, eyes tracing the cracked tiles and the mould weaving in between them. He’s never been in the second floor girls bathroom before, but Harry insisted that it was the best place for them to go at that given moment (the resident ghost, whose name is Myrtle, is annoying and persistent and cries too much; it took far too much coaxing from Harry to get her to be quiet for at least fifteen minutes). Harry is leaning over him, and Draco tries to take it all in without being too obvious about it.

_“You shouldn’t have done that, Draco.”_

He doesn’t even sound angry or scornful, rather gentle and sympathetic, but the words still hold the same weight as a jabbing criticism, like a parent scolding their child. _You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have done that. What is wrong with you? You’re an idiot, Draco._

But he isn’t talking about the common room incident, even though Draco can’t get that idea out of his mind. He’s never even mentioned it; it’s a bad memory he wants to forgot. He’s bandaging up his bloody knuckles, ice packed on tightly, and keeps looking at the red raw skin like it’s ready to spill all its secrets.

“It was an accident”, Draco mutters.

“You accidentally punched a wall?”

“I was angry.”

“Clearly.”

Neither of them say a thing, until Harry cuts the silence with the edge of his laugh. It’s louder than anything Draco thinks he’s ever heard before, and makes him reminiscence on Wednesday. It is nothing like how he laughs in front of his friends; he sounds like he could take the world and do whatever he wants with it. Draco wants to live in this world and never have to be afraid of anything ever again.

“Merlin”, he says, head thrown back, throat and chest moving in synchrony. “What are we going to tell everyone?”

“There’s no ‘we’ about this”, Draco says, more bitterly than he had meant to. “It’s just me. I’ll make something up, say I saw a group of Muggleborns pass me and lost control. That’s in character for me, right? No one would doubt it.”

It’s a joke, a bad one at that, but still a joke. Harry frowns and looks up from his knuckles, eyes burning into his. “You’re not like that anymore. You’re different now.”

“No one would ever believe that.”

“I do.”

There it is again, the quietness slowly creeping back into the bathroom. He tries to focus on anything else; the dripping of a leaky faucet, counting how many missing ceiling tiles there are, the strange intricacy to the broken windows. But Harry is still looking, and that’s all it ever seems people get to do to him lately; look, and judge.

“I was just angry”, Draco says quietly.

Harry sighs. “I know. I’m sorry.”

His apologies don’t stick around in his head the way they used to.

*

Hermione Granger is an enigma. She’s intelligent, moderately attractive and moderately popular, and ticks off a dozen other boxes on the long laundry list that makes up the perfect girl. She punched him once in their third year — something which he undoubtedly deserved; in fact, he’s amazed she hadn’t done it earlier — and ever since then, Draco had developed a strange habit of studying her whenever she was close by. Whether it be during study periods in the library, or in the Great Hall, or anyway, really, he watches her closely, and takes in the way she does things. She writes her notes quickly, yet they stay precise; she had found a spell which dog-eared the pages in her books without leaving permanent creases. She seldom smiles when away from Harry or Ron, but when they are there, it’s like she can never be able to stop, no matter how hard she tries.

He notices the way she sits next to Harry, a little too close, and how she’s always looking at him for a reaction. He sees them in the library when she’s helping him find books or do homework. She has risked her life countless times for him, been with him through it all, and the world knows this and for that she is special in his and everyone’s eyes.

Hermione Granger is beautiful and a girl, and she’s already won.

*

“Your friends hate me”, he says one day. Harry is reading under the shade of a tree; they’re somewhere near the edge of the school grounds, away from everyone else. It’s more difficult than he had realised to get them alone together; Harry Potter is, well, Harry Potter, and people get easily attached to both him and the image of him. Draco tries not to complain though; they love Harry for everything he is, and he would hate to see that disappear.

“I mean”, he starts, although they both have a general idea as to how the sentiment is going to end. “They— look, I won’t lie to you.”

“I’m not expecting you to”, Draco says in the middle of a laugh. “I already know. It’s just...god, Granger really hates my guts. I don’t blame her, though.”

“She just doesn’t know you”, Harry insists. “She knows the you from like, two or three years ago.”

“And Ron?”

“The same, I guess. But mostly because he cares so much for Hermione, y’know? He’s had his eye on her since second year, although he’ll never admit it.”

Harry puts his book down and closes his eyes. The sunlight shines through the leaves, reflecting off his glasses, and makes his face glow like stars in the sky. His skin looks so warm; Draco feels as though there’s a divine being who’s presence he’s unworthy of being in. He is safe and he is alive, breathing softly like a hymn, and he is everything Draco has ever wanted but will never deserve.

His smile has since diminished, replaced with a look of uncertainty or insecurity, maybe even fear. He’s never really been able to properly convey his emotions; he’s probably confused as well. His hand rubs the broken, bandage-clad knuckles without really paying attention to it. “Hermione likes you.”

Harry’s eyes are wide open, the image of heaven shattering, and it’s all Draco’s fault. “What? No she doesn’t. I just— I just said that _Ron—“_

“I know what you said, but it doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Yes it does! God, _I_ don’t even think of her like that! She’s one of my best friends, I could never see her as anything else.”

“Bull _shit”,_ Draco snaps. “Don’t lie to me. I know that’s why you haven’t told anyone about us. You know they’d all hate it if Harry Potter, Harry _fucking_ Potter was running around with a boy, so you’re waiting for things to be perfect with you and Hermione so you can have her instead and leave me.”

He sounds absolutely insane; half of it doesn’t even make sense. Harry’s eyes are large and pleading, desperate for him to listen to him or to consider another possibility or to just _stop_. But then he looks down like he’s committed a crime, and says quietly, “That’s not why I haven’t told anyone.”

It takes a few seconds for Draco to understand. Then he does, and he almost screams.

“Oh. Oh, no _fucking_ way.”

“Draco—“

“No! What, so you just thought you could take the evil little git from Slytherin, make him feel like he meant something, could be more than an elitist, insensitive piece of garbage, because you're Harry fucking Potter and you have the power to do that? Oh _fuck you,_ Harry.”

“It’s not my fault!” Harry yells. He’s standing now, towering over Draco and the rest of the world, and he looks as though he doesn’t care if people hear them. He doesn’t want to intentionally cause a scene, because that’s not a Harry thing to do, but he doesn’t bother trying to be discreet. “It’s not my fault that everyone hates Slytherin. I can’t— I can’t stop them from doing that. I just can’t.”

Draco stops. The words hang heavy in the air, taste like blood in his mouth and fire in his throat. He wants to cry, scream, throw some half-assed juvenile insult at him. He could do so many things, yet none seem appropriate enough. So he does the one thing he’s used to, something he’s good at by now, and leaves.

_Everyone hates Slytherin. Everyone hates you._

Harry has learnt not to end their meetings with an apology.

*

Charms class has just ended, and Draco nearly gets out of the room when Hermione is dragging him back in by his collar. No one cares enough to question it (not even him, to some degree. Of course, he’s extremely confused as to what she wants with him, but he’s not about to run away from the situation). The door clicks behind them; Draco sighs, heavy yet complacent. He’s too tired to deal with this.

She spins around on her heels to face him, and says bluntly, “I know about you and Harry.”

Of course she knows. She’s the smartest witch in their year, possibly the entire school. She is careful and she watches, listens and takes the very essence of people into her mind. She is everything he’ll never be. He plays dumb, not necessarily to deny anything, rather to see how she works her way around this. “Elaborate.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Draco, we both know what I’m talking about. Don’t do this to me.”

All at once, he lets his guard down, shoulders sagging a little and his folded arms pulled tighter into his chest. Were they that obvious? Did everyone know about them? Did _Harry_ know that they were all aware, yet still insisted on keeping it a secret? Draco feels like it’s one big joke and he’s the punchline. He wants out, he wants to wake up and stop dying again and again.

“How long have you known?”

“Since Sunday.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Not that I’m aware of”, she replies coolly. This is going too easily for his own liking.

“What do you want from me?” He says it wearily. Like nothing really matters anymore.

The conversation weaves in and out of his ears like sand in the wind. He keeps track on some things, disregards others. She tells him Harry spent most of the weekend in bed. She tells him he’s not okay. She tells him she thinks he has something to do with it.

“We had an argument.” It’s the start of a confession, ripped raw from his mouth. He wishes she would stop looking at him. “I— I told him how I felt about us. He wants to keep it hidden, I don’t necessarily want that. Then I brought you into it.”

Her ears are ruby red. “Me? What have I got to do with this?”

“Come on Hermione. I see the way you two act together. It’s not subtle.”

“Merlin.” She’s laughing. He’s on the edge of disaster and _she’s laughing._ “I have _never_ thought of Harry in that way. He’s my best friend — well, second to Ron maybe. Draco, is that what this is all about?”

He looks down at his feet, maybe as an attempt to distract himself from letting more words spill out of his mouth. But he eventually continues anyway, eyes bleary. “I know what you all think of me. I saw the way everyone acted on Sunday. I’m— I’m trying to be better, I have been for a long time. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

He half expects her to chastise him, accuse him of wanting sympathy. But then his eyes meet hers. They are soft, the colour of chestnuts, like the earth after a storm. “Some people just need time.”

It’s not exactly a _thank you,_ but it doesn’t need to be. It’s nice, almost, although there’s probably a better way to describe it. She assures him she’ll convince Ron to be less aggressive the next time he goes into their common room, whenever that might be. She doesn’t mention Harry again, as if she has enough confidence in Draco for him to do something about it.

“Hermione”, he says just as she goes to leave. “How did you know?”

He thinks he can see the shadow of a smile grace her face, though he can’t be certain. “You left with a herbology book. You don’t study herbology.”

She’s gone before he can even think twice.

*

Harry’s bedsheets are as soft as he remembers them.

He’s already sitting there, waiting for Draco to show up, although he doesn’t avert his eyes from the ground when Draco sits next to him. In another universe, this would be easier; perhaps there would be a script or some prompts for them to follow. There aren’t any, though, so Draco speaks before he can.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s more vague than anything else, a question without a definitive answer. He wishes he had just waited for Harry to go first.

“Okay”, he murmurs. “I’m okay.”

Draco isn’t sure if that’s all he wanted to say, or if the remainder of his words died out on his tongue. Harry substitutes words for body language, taking Draco’s hand and squeezing it, and Draco feels like winter mornings in Hogsmeade, like hot Butterbeer running down his throat. He thinks of before, of afternoons hidden away and coarse hands making soft touches to his body. It is unfiltered, unbridled, and he wants it all back.

“Are you really?”

“What else could I be? There isn’t much to feel.”

He turns to Draco, smiling weakly. Draco has died a thousand times in his dreams, but Harry is fading away right now before his eyes. “I know Hermione spoke to you. She didn’t tell me but I figured it out on my own.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, what do you think?”

“I love her for trying, I suppose.”

“She’s worried, Harry.”

“Of course she is. I’m fine, really. I’m just sensitive.”

There’s a white hot flash of laughter, sharp and cutting. He doesn’t mean it, just wants to make everything feel less empty. Draco attempts not to fall apart at the sound of it.

“Harry.” The hand on his squeezes again, tighter, a lifeline between them. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I shouldn’t have talked about Hermione or you like that. I’m s-sorry, I was just— I was just _confused_ and nothing makes sense—“

“No, no, stop that. Nothing is your fault.”

“I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Harry stays quiet, like he’s not exactly sure what to do with it either.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me”, he says eventually. It takes Draco by surprise, strangely enough, like the thought of Harry being insecure is unfathomable. “I don’t know why I’m so scared of everything.”

He’s wiping his eyes, and Draco hadn’t even noticed him cry before, and now doesn’t know how to react to it. “Oh. Oh, no, it’s okay, stop crying.”

Harry lifts his glasses up a little bit. The lens are glistening, saturated.

“I feel empty”, he mumbles. “There’s holes in my chest, Draco, and everything keeps spilling out.”

“What?”

He doesn’t respond; he’s not usually this vague. It’s a startling shift from his general obliviousness, the kindness that comes before the knowing. Maybe he knows too much now and doesn’t want it anymore.

Draco tries his best not to think like it’s all already over. He doesn’t want it to be done with; he wants to keep watching Harry, soft and silent, features lined in white moonlight. He wants the cracked lips and hungry eyes on his body all the time. He wants him, this thing of beauty, to read and laugh and have long conversations in places where the light reaches, in the welcoming openness of the day. He wants, he wants, he wants.

“I…” It’s tentative, followed by a pause, and Draco holds his breath. “I could never hate you. I’m sorry.”

It almost rolls down his spine and dissolves into thin air, but Draco takes the apology and buries it deep in his heart. He’ll cherish this one forever.

“I know”, he says simply. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Nobody else needs to know. I’m happy to stay like this, as long as I have you.”

Harry pauses and contemplates; his eyelids close slowly, leaving Draco to stare at his skin and wait. Then he’s back again, and the room feels significantly less empty.

“Let them know.”

Its short and quick, simple really, like a promise rolling off his tongue. _Let them know._ The white noise in Draco’s ears nearly drown it out. His eyes well up and the world spins, because that’s just what Harry does to him.

“Are you sure?”

He’s falling hard now, and nothing can stop him. Harry takes his hand, looks at him, cheeks tear stained but eyes electric, and smiles with the same conviction. “I want you and everything that comes along with it. I want everyone to see you for who you are.”

He’s crashed and the dream is finally over, reality bleeding through like dye. He smiles and collects himself, watches Harry because it’s what he does best, and sinks into his arms.


End file.
